Margarita couldn’t help wondering if her arrival home today would unleash the same vigorous exuberance. Flicking down the driver’s visor, she checked her appearance in the mirror, always at its most merciless this time in the morning. She ran her hands through her short cropped dark hair, her gaze resting briefly on her bronzed cheeks before inspecting the mascara which focused attention on what Bob had always told her were her most alluring feature—her vivacious Latina eyes. Her complexion may have faded and lines deepened through menopause, and she was sometimes despairing of the unstoppable changes that had come over her. But sexual attraction had turned out to be a most curious thing, the spark of desire was evidently capable of being re-ignited even given the reality of thinning skin and sagging breasts. Physicality, it seemed, was only part of it. Snapping the visor mirror shut, Margarita pondered for a while on how this particular life force, one she had imagined consigned to her past, was capable of making such a sudden and welcome late-life resurgence.

Not that she pondered for very long.

Opening the driver’s door to step inside, the most familiar figure caught her eye. He was quite some distance away—a couple of hundred yards down the street at the top of an outdoor staircase. But even if he had been twice the distance, even if he hadn’t been wearing the jungle green jacket they had bought in Costa Rica last year, she would have recognized him in an instant. What on earth was he doing stepping out the door of the apartment above Paige Turner Books? And so early in the morning?

The questions were still forming in her mind when a figure appeared behind him. As he turned back, Margarita could make out the pink of a bathrobe. A woman’s hands around his shoulders. He was kissing her—and not in the manner of a cordial farewell. The intimacy of their embrace was unmistakable. Moments later, he was stepping back inside, shutting the door quickly.

Behind the steering wheel, Margarita was too shocked to move.

3

Beverly Hills, Los Angeles

Dan Kavana, America’s most loved African American TV anchor, had been fast asleep when his phone rang. Grabbing it from the bedside table, through force of habit he tried switching off the alarm. Before realizing it wasn’t an alarm, but an incoming call. From the Head of News. And he should have been up an hour ago.

He sat in bed, clearing his throat

“Where are you now?” His boss, Nick Nalder, never wasted time on pleasantries.

“About to leave.” Which usually he would have been. “What’s up?”

“Contagious bacteria.”

Jolted, Dan tugged off the sheets and got out of bed. Nothing like the threat of a contagion to boost ratings. The more dire the better. “Where?” he asked, getting to the bathroom and switching on the light.

“New York. Times Square outlet of Golden Drumsticks.”